tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52478581939523768312018-05-21T08:22:14.104+01:00harikaThe adventures of a compulsive sketcher in Istanbul.szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.comBlogger1465125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-176207296234485132018-02-01T22:07:00.000+00:002018-02-01T22:07:56.122+00:00thirty-nine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nB0svBcVaY0/WnOPbCIGbiI/AAAAAAAAcHc/9Q9lCV1WvaY8Epum1PUSCs1f2r0GnybxgCLcBGAs/s1600/thirty-nine.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nB0svBcVaY0/WnOPbCIGbiI/AAAAAAAAcHc/9Q9lCV1WvaY8Epum1PUSCs1f2r0GnybxgCLcBGAs/s1600/thirty-nine.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Today was the first day of the last year of my thirties.</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-55844908906147587142017-12-30T20:53:00.001+00:002017-12-30T20:53:12.796+00:00harika holidays from florence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8Pqt-kYgnE/Wkf65mzVKLI/AAAAAAAAcFc/bSUvLNVeBoQUKDSSpWQB-jTq5KeQwwq0wCLcBGAs/s1600/firenze001.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8Pqt-kYgnE/Wkf65mzVKLI/AAAAAAAAcFc/bSUvLNVeBoQUKDSSpWQB-jTq5KeQwwq0wCLcBGAs/s1600/firenze001.jpg" /></a><br /><br />If I don't get a chance to post a "Happy New Year" to you all in a week or two— have a very happy New Year! May it be a <i>harika</i> year of happiness and good health, inspiration and fulfillment. When I find a moment, I have so much to show you— Artemisia, Botticelli, Lippi, Titian, Raphael, Leonardo... Magical names to invoke for 2018. Until then, <i>ciao</i>&nbsp;my friends!</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-28447894027460853862017-12-23T22:41:00.000+00:002017-12-23T22:41:12.696+00:00a quick sketch on the tram<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VMB-dXL8wIA/Wj7bOY3YGnI/AAAAAAAAcFI/tQFHXAMXpJUbSN0FduOIL99SfWzfjHXbQCLcBGAs/s1600/091217-tram-ticket.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VMB-dXL8wIA/Wj7bOY3YGnI/AAAAAAAAcFI/tQFHXAMXpJUbSN0FduOIL99SfWzfjHXbQCLcBGAs/s1600/091217-tram-ticket.jpg" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="950" /></a><br /><br />Quick and messy on the back of my tram ticket...</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-5758856272406842942017-12-20T13:11:00.000+00:002017-12-20T13:11:53.844+00:00moroccan doughnuts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ha6zN-ti71I/WjWYVU5qtKI/AAAAAAAAcEM/iWI_ffak2U48MRlOw1ClnlMhppsrBHhqQCLcBGAs/s1600/sfenj.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ha6zN-ti71I/WjWYVU5qtKI/AAAAAAAAcEM/iWI_ffak2U48MRlOw1ClnlMhppsrBHhqQCLcBGAs/s1600/sfenj.jpg" /></a><br /><br />I do not have a sweet tooth, but every so often I indulge in a sugary treat. For some time I had been curious about these so-called Moroccan doughnuts, which every now and then could be seen carried away down the street by men in&nbsp;<i>djellabas</i>, the fluffy rings strung like beads on a strip of palm frond. I had incorrectly assumed that they could be found in a café or bakery, and after many disappointing attempts to get my hands on some, I consulted my students. I learned that the doughnuts are called&nbsp;<i>sfenj</i>, and can only be acquired from a dedicated&nbsp;<i>sfenj</i>&nbsp;hole-in-the-wall.<br /><br />On one of Baby's afternoon walks, I spied a man in a striped djellaba turning away from a little crowd of people with a string of golden rings. Could it be? As he walked past me, it was confirmed:&nbsp;<i>sfenj</i>. In a shop no bigger than a closet, sandwiched between the entrances of apartment buildings, sat a man and a vat of boiling oil. A steamy display case separated eager clientele from the man, who was diligently spooning the&nbsp;<i>sfenj&nbsp;</i>out&nbsp;from the bubbling pool of oil.<br /><br />I got four plain&nbsp;<i>sfenj</i>&nbsp;on a palm frond, and one dusted with sugar in my hand for immediate devouring. The dough was delightfully crispy on the outside and fluffy inside— far better than your average American doughnut, with or without sugar— and there's something so wonderful about carrying your string of&nbsp;<i>sfenj</i>&nbsp;down the street. Now I just need a blue djellaba...<br /><br /></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-27641330204756675222017-12-13T22:08:00.001+00:002017-12-13T22:13:52.123+00:00nine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xm5e1319dhA/WjEyPC_PRHI/AAAAAAAAcC4/g8QvOHmBdWE-aHw9VdDgi_0c_Ss56EKqwCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/asilah015-2016.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xm5e1319dhA/WjEyPC_PRHI/AAAAAAAAcC4/g8QvOHmBdWE-aHw9VdDgi_0c_Ss56EKqwCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/asilah015-2016.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Nine years... where have they all gone? Little did I know when I started this blog that I would find the love of my life, leave the other love of my life— Istanbul— and end up in Morocco with a baby. In the wee hours of the morning while feeding the little one, I was reflecting on how much I have loved sharing my journeys with all of you, and how little of it I have been doing since moving here. It feels like time is just slipping away— and there's never enough of it. Sketching and any kind of artwork seems out of the question, and this has plunged me into a sort of loneliness. Drawing and painting is such an integral part of my identity, that without it I am left with an emptiness.<br /><br />So I managed to do three small sketches in the past month. It's hardly anything, but it's a start. I've been playing around with some pigment powders that I bought in the <i>medina</i> of Tangier:<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CLD2LYyydUQ/WjE1pBMAxWI/AAAAAAAAcDE/b_5beZnekMUkV1jLacNHgKybmAJZbVbSwCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-littlebluebook01-1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CLD2LYyydUQ/WjE1pBMAxWI/AAAAAAAAcDE/b_5beZnekMUkV1jLacNHgKybmAJZbVbSwCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-littlebluebook01-1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gvABLW5WMkM/WjGCcnkZceI/AAAAAAAAcDU/FOeDc9N2ytMzLqd6XKfqOUe6-w3yAw7zgCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-littlebluebook02.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gvABLW5WMkM/WjGCcnkZceI/AAAAAAAAcDU/FOeDc9N2ytMzLqd6XKfqOUe6-w3yAw7zgCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-littlebluebook02.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Just above is Hamide, a <i>Gnaoua</i> musician who zipped across our path on a bike, down one of Asilah's narrow alleyways,&nbsp;<i>sintir</i>&nbsp;on his back. It was so quick that at first I wasn't sure what I saw— a hunched figure in a striped <i>djellabah</i> with what looked like a guitar— but after turning a few corners, we ran right into him. Hamide was laying out a few items on striped and tie-dyed cloths when he greeted us, which involved placing hats on our heads.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QEa07LPjKhM/WjGbiC3eAiI/AAAAAAAAcDo/96aJnkClvsoVnDLo3yq0uNhNOeMJfyrJwCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah016.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QEa07LPjKhM/WjGbiC3eAiI/AAAAAAAAcDo/96aJnkClvsoVnDLo3yq0uNhNOeMJfyrJwCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah016.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Sensing that I was eager to sketch Hamide, Pedro asked if he would pose for a portrait. With a wide grin he pulled out the <i>sintir</i>, a low, banjo-like instrument of stretched camel skin with three goat gut strings.<br /><br /><i>Je joue pour le bébé.</i><br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UAsZukOAD6k/WjGiQcbKCMI/AAAAAAAAcD8/1baGFdTzOWAcZeFq6yHzHlj4NhkLeg_iQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah017.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UAsZukOAD6k/WjGiQcbKCMI/AAAAAAAAcD8/1baGFdTzOWAcZeFq6yHzHlj4NhkLeg_iQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah017.jpg" /></a><br /><br />A deep, trance-like melody filled the alley, lulling Baby to sleep. Seizing the moment, I drew. At some point during the song, a young man popped out of a door with a plate of couscous for Hamide, which he shared with us.<br /><br /><i>Nous sommes une grande famille. </i>He explained.<br /><i><br /></i>So here we are, nine years later. I've really got to start drawing again. Make the time, get over my new nervousness when approaching people. It goes by too quickly.</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-68997616175592184742017-12-12T10:25:00.001+00:002017-12-12T10:30:09.552+00:00the colours of asilah<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VAkw7JPlIOc/Wi-sj2k7xcI/AAAAAAAAcBw/sYRW-lKFLLMNDtnPkDoPauueO6MmImMrgCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah008.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VAkw7JPlIOc/Wi-sj2k7xcI/AAAAAAAAcBw/sYRW-lKFLLMNDtnPkDoPauueO6MmImMrgCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah008.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YuUYEQqbWr4/Wi-srSEf8ZI/AAAAAAAAcCA/1oXQBXwXtaw-QzrLsq8wfE-rEIUUTejAwCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah012.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YuUYEQqbWr4/Wi-srSEf8ZI/AAAAAAAAcCA/1oXQBXwXtaw-QzrLsq8wfE-rEIUUTejAwCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah012.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Like so many places in Morocco, Asilah is white and blue— sky and clouds, water and salt. The blues range from an intense ultramarine to a bright cerulean.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xAt8N337bGs/Wi-vkXWQHUI/AAAAAAAAcCQ/dnG9Lw2Kc2QGkwyt3M0WGmOLPDjPMCKLQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah013.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xAt8N337bGs/Wi-vkXWQHUI/AAAAAAAAcCQ/dnG9Lw2Kc2QGkwyt3M0WGmOLPDjPMCKLQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah013.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p5dvuvWnP6Y/Wi-vkVbmMnI/AAAAAAAAcCM/QEj-yFniRDQXDUgbElGmxhIsQrdFj_gzACLcBGAs/s1600/asilah014.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p5dvuvWnP6Y/Wi-vkVbmMnI/AAAAAAAAcCM/QEj-yFniRDQXDUgbElGmxhIsQrdFj_gzACLcBGAs/s1600/asilah014.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c5PCp9gYFI4/Wi-sq3GevjI/AAAAAAAAcB8/TU-VLzacbx4wGMs4CDg_9tqbC_H9uVk0wCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah009.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c5PCp9gYFI4/Wi-sq3GevjI/AAAAAAAAcB8/TU-VLzacbx4wGMs4CDg_9tqbC_H9uVk0wCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah009.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cm10oNt8Whs/Wi-sqrMAwdI/AAAAAAAAcB0/zDi7ywnXQvQumGo2WqErgoJaWl0jdcdfgCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah010.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cm10oNt8Whs/Wi-sqrMAwdI/AAAAAAAAcB0/zDi7ywnXQvQumGo2WqErgoJaWl0jdcdfgCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah010.jpg" /></a><br /><br />I spied this secret blue haven through a shop window, and dreamed of sitting in that chair under the stairwell with a glass of fresh mint tea, a pad of paper, and a pencil...<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bDJH3YnpaHc/Wi-sq97TOMI/AAAAAAAAcB4/-qdjU46FW3YrBpigjTqCxEDjwTL-MH-MQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah011.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bDJH3YnpaHc/Wi-sq97TOMI/AAAAAAAAcB4/-qdjU46FW3YrBpigjTqCxEDjwTL-MH-MQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah011.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-36171854485698683252017-11-30T20:49:00.003+00:002017-11-30T20:49:24.177+00:00lovely asilah<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SDmcydWPQvs/WiBskOeGDTI/AAAAAAAAcAI/EzR_ZcYCVxI8JR6GZQjIlS3O50IPNa3FACLcBGAs/s1600/asilah003.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SDmcydWPQvs/WiBskOeGDTI/AAAAAAAAcAI/EzR_ZcYCVxI8JR6GZQjIlS3O50IPNa3FACLcBGAs/s1600/asilah003.jpg" /></a><br /><br />My third visit to Asilah ended in food poisoning and a bad cold— for all three of us. I've always prided myself on having a stomach of steel but Morocco has an uncanny ability to smash any notions of gastrointestinal strength that one might have. What was intended to be a long weekend of relaxation, grilled fish, sight-seeing and birding, turned into a hasty retreat back to Rabat with a poor baby wailing in the car, and two rattled parents.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EM9-V-Tb5F4/WiBs3plGUFI/AAAAAAAAcAU/Drx76EhU5zUXgxi_hTTVKLpO6QWcQI-3wCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah005.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EM9-V-Tb5F4/WiBs3plGUFI/AAAAAAAAcAU/Drx76EhU5zUXgxi_hTTVKLpO6QWcQI-3wCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah005.jpg" /></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3jGinBY9MfU/WiBs0IxeliI/AAAAAAAAcAQ/MPXdlI8hu9Qvj_E_e_267lsal5ASrAcAQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah004.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3jGinBY9MfU/WiBs0IxeliI/AAAAAAAAcAQ/MPXdlI8hu9Qvj_E_e_267lsal5ASrAcAQCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah004.jpg" /></a><br /><br />And so, over the next couple of posts, I give you the few photos (and one sketch coming— can you believe it?) that I managed to take in this lovely seaside town of whitewashed alleys and colourful murals.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o8nBocsq3Qo/WiBuj3Gi8wI/AAAAAAAAcAk/t1gW790WRdMzuNfvzo-jYHtnwr6LxexnACLcBGAs/s1600/asilah007.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o8nBocsq3Qo/WiBuj3Gi8wI/AAAAAAAAcAk/t1gW790WRdMzuNfvzo-jYHtnwr6LxexnACLcBGAs/s1600/asilah007.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_AA54NI-d50/WiBujyWXc1I/AAAAAAAAcAg/LDspgi0H8fs99lYbzvIOOGQC8KjLp8sCwCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah006.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_AA54NI-d50/WiBujyWXc1I/AAAAAAAAcAg/LDspgi0H8fs99lYbzvIOOGQC8KjLp8sCwCLcBGAs/s1600/asilah006.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-36438042757881098462017-11-22T17:26:00.000+00:002017-11-22T20:56:33.464+00:00day at the museum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ie3BcNn8XRM/WhCvV6vs-EI/AAAAAAAAb-E/U4IZ9r8uYMAML_dByOaq5FXf4TTyw-95QCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-001.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ie3BcNn8XRM/WhCvV6vs-EI/AAAAAAAAb-E/U4IZ9r8uYMAML_dByOaq5FXf4TTyw-95QCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-001.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Back in Rabat, the beautiful <a href="http://www.museemohammed6.ma/" target="_blank">Musée Mohammed VI Art Moderne &amp; Contemporain</a> is holding an exhibition of work by Spanish artists from the time of Goya until the present day. Here are some of my favourites, followed by Baby's:<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q32CvhUSTuk/WhCxg2yuMRI/AAAAAAAAb-c/EKUKEjApjcAXt2LVoZiC3bjX4ra0lE5jgCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-004.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q32CvhUSTuk/WhCxg2yuMRI/AAAAAAAAb-c/EKUKEjApjcAXt2LVoZiC3bjX4ra0lE5jgCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-004.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yAkSNrfWgbU/WhCyLt708mI/AAAAAAAAb-o/aaiFix_A0j40-wVQE3WphImxDIF6IFi2gCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-005.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yAkSNrfWgbU/WhCyLt708mI/AAAAAAAAb-o/aaiFix_A0j40-wVQE3WphImxDIF6IFi2gCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-005.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PajGidRJNrU/WhWyb6CqEtI/AAAAAAAAb_w/GIBtGTzMzT0MOePilqsf91oEV-vQHOyhgCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-010.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PajGidRJNrU/WhWyb6CqEtI/AAAAAAAAb_w/GIBtGTzMzT0MOePilqsf91oEV-vQHOyhgCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-010.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zw5nNvFquxc/WhWwDRHsvsI/AAAAAAAAb_E/_xPC5F8aEaULV6sDPNIY87oy90JmyWF-QCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-006.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zw5nNvFquxc/WhWwDRHsvsI/AAAAAAAAb_E/_xPC5F8aEaULV6sDPNIY87oy90JmyWF-QCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-006.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8ORlrlPgR6k/WhWwkFqbzZI/AAAAAAAAb_Y/zpWVc9TAnuQIEvyCZ9p9dRXqcdsBTOBxwCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-007.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8ORlrlPgR6k/WhWwkFqbzZI/AAAAAAAAb_Y/zpWVc9TAnuQIEvyCZ9p9dRXqcdsBTOBxwCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-007.jpg" /></a><br /><br />We are grateful that the museum is so child-friendly— our nerves about taking an infant to see the work finally settled when the smiles kept coming from the gallery guards. Baby loved the bright colours and contrast of some pieces, and we hope that more experiences like this will build a future appreciation for art!<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G0OurkPj64o/WhWwjdXfAZI/AAAAAAAAb_U/CXya_7Xc77Ado5reIdLVvigJjo2JcifnQCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-008.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G0OurkPj64o/WhWwjdXfAZI/AAAAAAAAb_U/CXya_7Xc77Ado5reIdLVvigJjo2JcifnQCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-008.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mOtGPOHjx8U/WhWxgrSuxrI/AAAAAAAAb_k/nBrhbRL0RmwzSMR5ZWwv2_beUKkHS2zywCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-009.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mOtGPOHjx8U/WhWxgrSuxrI/AAAAAAAAb_k/nBrhbRL0RmwzSMR5ZWwv2_beUKkHS2zywCLcBGAs/s1600/mm6-009.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Francisco de Goya.&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Miguel Fernandez Durán, marquis de Tolosa</i>. 1787. Oil on canvas.&nbsp;</span></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida. <i>José Echegaray</i></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">. 1905.&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Oil on canvas.&nbsp;</span></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ignacio Zuloaga. <i>Alejandro Fernández de Araoz</i>. 1936.&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Charcoal and chalk on canvas.&nbsp;</span></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Rafael Canogar.&nbsp;<i>Untitled</i><i>.</i>&nbsp;1973.&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Silkscreen on paper.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Rafael Canogar. <i>Estudio para un monumento.</i>&nbsp;1972.&nbsp;</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Lithograph on paper.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Equipo Crónica. <i>El constructor</i>. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.</span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Equipo Crónica. <i>Guernica</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Equipo Crónica. <i>La pincelada con Felipe</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Equipo Crónica. <i>Interior de Las meninas</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">. 1971-1972. Silkscreen on paper.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Equipo Crónica. <i>Composición</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Ferrán García Sevilla. <i>Poligon 32</i>. 1988. Acrylic on canvas.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ignasi Aballí. <i>Serie Biografias</i>. 2001. Oil, acrylic, tempera, and vinyl on canvas.</span></span></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-24044424972149610062017-11-13T17:49:00.001+00:002017-11-13T17:49:11.803+00:00anchovy tajines and strawberry trees<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zSSpr9p3O9E/WgbgWKcQLWI/AAAAAAAAb8s/xoBXWi7CVOMUMdEiXXxV64cJL03Qt5JkwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen017.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zSSpr9p3O9E/WgbgWKcQLWI/AAAAAAAAb8s/xoBXWi7CVOMUMdEiXXxV64cJL03Qt5JkwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen017.jpg" /></a><br /><br />One bright blue morning we drove off in search of the green of an Algerian Oak forest. The winding hilly roads twisted my stomach as I sat in the backseat attempting to entertain Baby with an owl puppet and renditions of Bowie songs. After passing through so many dry agricultural fields, we finally reached the forest— and my guts began to spin.<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sJ2qbOGKeSY/WgjSzVU6foI/AAAAAAAAb9A/5p85YbHaB_QZ6SnugcRugtRZ256CBufBwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen024.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sJ2qbOGKeSY/WgjSzVU6foI/AAAAAAAAb9A/5p85YbHaB_QZ6SnugcRugtRZ256CBufBwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen024.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Pedro pulled over to the side of the road (which by now had become rather patchy), and took the opportunity to search for birds while I gathered my head and fed Baby. We were nearly surrounded by strawberry trees— their bright red fruit beautifully popping out from the green, so deliciously enticing. In fact, this was precisely what I needed: to get my legs moving and to eat something. I foraged a handful of ripe fruit that had been missed by the birds and Barbary macaques, and slowly crushed their thin spiky flesh between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, delighting in the sensation. Soon, the sugar did its magic, and I felt a little less green myself.<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T5SMj6xWsiE/WgjS13jgfdI/AAAAAAAAb9E/_vFE1yofI6MHgYl26jgCYjnGYsOOTSZUgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen025.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T5SMj6xWsiE/WgjS13jgfdI/AAAAAAAAb9E/_vFE1yofI6MHgYl26jgCYjnGYsOOTSZUgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen025.jpg" /></a><br /><br />The oak forest was lush and expansive; a reminder of how there are so many Moroccos. We didn't stay too long though, as it was getting late and we had skipped lunch. On they way back to Chefchaouen we spied a troupe of macaques lurking in the trees off the side of the road, who vanished the second I pulled out my camera. We headed to the Uta el Hammam plaza, where we were certain to find food being served at such an odd hour.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--qaI9ZYY78Y/WgjTAFH5GJI/AAAAAAAAb9M/ZFYd2HtoDbwSay6iZbo-uMVCgqu3VBZ5wCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen026.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--qaI9ZYY78Y/WgjTAFH5GJI/AAAAAAAAb9M/ZFYd2HtoDbwSay6iZbo-uMVCgqu3VBZ5wCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen026.jpg" /></a><br /><br />I had heard that the goat cheese in the Rif is not to be missed, and I've had it on my mind ever since I saw the rounds of creamy goodness beautifully wrapped in palm fronds in Tangier. Though I'm not sure this is the same cheese, I enjoyed it on a fresh salad that came with olives and <i>zaalouk,</i> a cooked eggplant and tomato salad. This was followed by a tasty anchovy <i>tajine</i>, with a lemony tomato sauce.<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XKZxdYfWEbM/WgjTAneQEWI/AAAAAAAAb9Q/0I9ZvvXMqnM5AO4j2WcM9IVZIvixrZlggCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen027.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XKZxdYfWEbM/WgjTAneQEWI/AAAAAAAAb9Q/0I9ZvvXMqnM5AO4j2WcM9IVZIvixrZlggCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen027.jpg" /></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RqF2ydLoeq4/WgjUR8pQqnI/AAAAAAAAb9k/cjUp0QkpI8svpIY0Yxpi2sdHVFloP88mwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen029.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RqF2ydLoeq4/WgjUR8pQqnI/AAAAAAAAb9k/cjUp0QkpI8svpIY0Yxpi2sdHVFloP88mwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen029.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Mid-meal, Baby scored us both a glass of tea from the neighbouring table. This sort of thing has been happening lately— the most unusual of which has been a gift of sole from the fishmonger on two separate occasions. In Morocco, men, women, and children run up to kiss a cheek or forehead— something that would horrify most Americans— <i>a stranger kissing my baby?!</i> I find it endearing (and cross my fingers that the kisser doesn't have a cold).<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-723ZFeMDBpI/WgjS_JXU9eI/AAAAAAAAb9I/993YHDN_2EE2FXRpG3OVX7leo8V7rOoUQCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen028.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-723ZFeMDBpI/WgjS_JXU9eI/AAAAAAAAb9I/993YHDN_2EE2FXRpG3OVX7leo8V7rOoUQCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen028.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-20699481176778786742017-11-11T11:34:00.001+00:002017-11-11T11:34:20.953+00:00narrow passages<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DyJ2kkcFwgg/WgbgHTsrF3I/AAAAAAAAb8g/uXc7rjihWZ0Fi87oe7XRN0jVu06tGOsBwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen020.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DyJ2kkcFwgg/WgbgHTsrF3I/AAAAAAAAb8g/uXc7rjihWZ0Fi87oe7XRN0jVu06tGOsBwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen020.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e5mJ7-HQe_c/WgbgHTCNVSI/AAAAAAAAb8k/b1rUQnr6Ns0u45MH-v7z6DLF5bGzSoDrgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen022.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e5mJ7-HQe_c/WgbgHTCNVSI/AAAAAAAAb8k/b1rUQnr6Ns0u45MH-v7z6DLF5bGzSoDrgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen022.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4BdcUEOx3xA/WgbgGKOz1cI/AAAAAAAAb8c/MzPJ7mZ1Rycmhe8XX5Eu7QVfq4wiQAiAwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen021.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4BdcUEOx3xA/WgbgGKOz1cI/AAAAAAAAb8c/MzPJ7mZ1Rycmhe8XX5Eu7QVfq4wiQAiAwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen021.jpg" /></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1Nl8dxf4xmw/WgbgIrck1jI/AAAAAAAAb8o/IHrIEspf9kcS95YNIAzDeQyzjUF5-fQXwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen023.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1Nl8dxf4xmw/WgbgIrck1jI/AAAAAAAAb8o/IHrIEspf9kcS95YNIAzDeQyzjUF5-fQXwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen023.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-46369935937091864192017-11-05T12:05:00.001+00:002017-11-05T12:05:44.365+00:00a closer look<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eKtEqQaRFmM/Wf5DUScqOuI/AAAAAAAAbzc/O0xBmt4o3JYH7U_PvcuZjcfBtkJJMNkiQCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen009.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eKtEqQaRFmM/Wf5DUScqOuI/AAAAAAAAbzc/O0xBmt4o3JYH7U_PvcuZjcfBtkJJMNkiQCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen009.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Have you ever seen anything so blue that wasn't the sky or the sea? Apart from an Yves Klein work of art or the Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech, I haven't experienced blues so blue— and it is an experience, rather than a sight. These are colours that swallow you.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-58i0gLLMIzU/Wf771lwWslI/AAAAAAAAb0U/RSdVFvS07tISHbtcif6we-IqOvxiJ1RywCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen011.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-58i0gLLMIzU/Wf771lwWslI/AAAAAAAAb0U/RSdVFvS07tISHbtcif6we-IqOvxiJ1RywCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen011.jpg" /></a><br /><br />The Rif town of Chefchaouen began to turn blue somewhere around the 1930s, and it is said that a Jewish population fleeing Nazi Europe began to paint the old medina blue for spiritual reasons. The various shades of blue, pigments mixed with lime, became a tradition that soon attracted tourists from all over the globe.<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bg3iPiuhBt4/Wf77nlkfZhI/AAAAAAAAb0Q/rXANBFDf2Io4g-S0ldbLegwE5XjjVjuzgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen014.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bg3iPiuhBt4/Wf77nlkfZhI/AAAAAAAAb0Q/rXANBFDf2Io4g-S0ldbLegwE5XjjVjuzgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen014.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LH8xjxFQKhQ/Wf5DrddjebI/AAAAAAAAbzs/7WLRWQb1euQ6OkkarPPxN0JxJsSZHW3_QCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen012.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LH8xjxFQKhQ/Wf5DrddjebI/AAAAAAAAbzs/7WLRWQb1euQ6OkkarPPxN0JxJsSZHW3_QCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen012.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pk4HSvTsE9Q/Wf7-c-s1bKI/AAAAAAAAb0k/9tl1Q8pUXckzvV3D1WfK9DS4wh2WpukMwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen016.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pk4HSvTsE9Q/Wf7-c-s1bKI/AAAAAAAAb0k/9tl1Q8pUXckzvV3D1WfK9DS4wh2WpukMwCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen016.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-70379549219555632902017-11-04T22:04:00.000+00:002017-11-04T22:04:09.205+00:00the many blues of chefchaouen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0_t9T_ZzYR4/Wf41SJ5toCI/AAAAAAAAby0/gttMg68yTeMU2bql_psD33ElVOYEv19mQCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen003.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0_t9T_ZzYR4/Wf41SJ5toCI/AAAAAAAAby0/gttMg68yTeMU2bql_psD33ElVOYEv19mQCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen003.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H1KJvSsfab0/Wf44hNofoBI/AAAAAAAAbzI/OoSIj2rf8kgWNNW4LXnF61FiWvXAlLiiACLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen007.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H1KJvSsfab0/Wf44hNofoBI/AAAAAAAAbzI/OoSIj2rf8kgWNNW4LXnF61FiWvXAlLiiACLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen007.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j7vgD0U06nI/Wf41ldHQCdI/AAAAAAAAby8/vNyKYoRXq0MfoUheILq7-ZWFZMNxUtU1ACLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen006.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j7vgD0U06nI/Wf41ldHQCdI/AAAAAAAAby8/vNyKYoRXq0MfoUheILq7-ZWFZMNxUtU1ACLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen006.jpg" /></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ct7RYaSDQ2I/Wf44iqR3NPI/AAAAAAAAbzM/SE8-XOAfCqUTvLcBhLk-JOTFpnda2JmjgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen008.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ct7RYaSDQ2I/Wf44iqR3NPI/AAAAAAAAbzM/SE8-XOAfCqUTvLcBhLk-JOTFpnda2JmjgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen008.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-39480373354293693582017-11-04T12:06:00.002+00:002017-11-04T12:06:51.139+00:00a little moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WbCPVRLIsYY/Wf2tFcuwI8I/AAAAAAAAbyY/2hjNxehQiHYEJDBMm481d3LL2ayMg347gCLcBGAs/s1600/baby-sketch041117.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WbCPVRLIsYY/Wf2tFcuwI8I/AAAAAAAAbyY/2hjNxehQiHYEJDBMm481d3LL2ayMg347gCLcBGAs/s1600/baby-sketch041117.jpg" /></a><br /><br />While finishing my coffee after breakfast this morning, I was given a moment to do a 7-minute-or-so sketch while my little bunting was entertained by the visiting buntings outside the window.</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-84401540291327205132017-11-03T11:21:00.001+00:002017-11-03T11:21:37.487+00:00after the sky lifted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5DoTh4pooA/WfxQrf-o-kI/AAAAAAAAbyI/5H8LT_QV1Mw7tdx-HrPkNW1l_nQYyKTTgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen002.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5DoTh4pooA/WfxQrf-o-kI/AAAAAAAAbyI/5H8LT_QV1Mw7tdx-HrPkNW1l_nQYyKTTgCLcBGAs/s1600/chefchaouen002.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Ophelia had sucked the breath out of the Sahara and cast our skies a yellow-grey, coating everything in a fine dust. Just as I surrendered to the beads of sweat running down my skin, the clothing sticking to my body, the heavy nights, the trees began to softly move in a different direction. The sky lifted, and I could breathe again.<br /><br />The sleep deprivation that comes with parenthood seems to have dulled the edges of my mind of late— I find my tongue stumbling over words, my thoughts dissipating in little bubbles. I feel like I am constantly running, but never getting anywhere. Still, Baby grows strong and proudly learns new tricks, and I am a mother completely enchanted— all the exhaustion and frustration is blown away with the tiniest of smiles or a giggle.<br /><br />Throughout my pregnancy I was told that my life would soon be over, that Pedro and I would have to kiss our adventures goodbye— apparently having children is like having your wings clipped, or something less poetic. We were of the opinion back then that everything is a choice, and felt that becoming parents would be a beginning rather than an end. Despite the sleepless nights and occasional tantrums, we still maintain those beliefs, and so we took our teething five month old on a six-and-a-half hour roadtrip to Chefchaouen this weekend. After all, wouldn't our baby want parents who are still curious about the world?<br /><br />So it took a few extra stops along the road and some gymnastic maneuvering while changing a diaper on the lid of a toilet in a dodgy restaurant bathroom— and I had to master the art of clandestine breastfeeding in public places. All fascinating learning experiences and adventures in their own right! I finally got to see the blue I had been waiting for, and though Baby won't remember it, we all had a wonderful time.<br /><br /></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-52821628155374098592017-10-06T23:09:00.001+01:002017-10-06T23:09:44.819+01:00hello autumn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jAl0vzO02gs/Wdf6atGn_GI/AAAAAAAAbwA/FEhCugUT4NkLIzvaP8T7YI5LTJ_iZl5UACLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jAl0vzO02gs/Wdf6atGn_GI/AAAAAAAAbwA/FEhCugUT4NkLIzvaP8T7YI5LTJ_iZl5UACLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn.jpg" /></a><br /><br />It's my favourite time of the year. Leaves turn colours, their dry scent carried on cool breezes. Except that I am in Rabat and it's in the high thirties, and I am a sweaty, stinky mess. Nevertheless, it's autumn, and there's the botanical garden with some leaves to crunch through— plus the streets near the Peace Corps building have nice, big piles of yellow. No sweaters, no scarves, no <i>hygge</i>— yet.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-URlBmk61dPw/Wdf-poAkCfI/AAAAAAAAbwM/3yENcFu4vaQazIvJs3VJCoLyhNHUEah-wCLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn02.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-URlBmk61dPw/Wdf-poAkCfI/AAAAAAAAbwM/3yENcFu4vaQazIvJs3VJCoLyhNHUEah-wCLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn02.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hs0wDqT4mRA/Wdf-thm4i0I/AAAAAAAAbwQ/5wLVm7CMN4gUeJj88DsgZejnWsUZp2gGgCLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn03.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hs0wDqT4mRA/Wdf-thm4i0I/AAAAAAAAbwQ/5wLVm7CMN4gUeJj88DsgZejnWsUZp2gGgCLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn03.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WITDMbOFbR4/Wdf-zZiGxNI/AAAAAAAAbwY/G1vasiTkAD0FZNKbF8wt4J8a1VCXHHYzwCLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn05.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WITDMbOFbR4/Wdf-zZiGxNI/AAAAAAAAbwY/G1vasiTkAD0FZNKbF8wt4J8a1VCXHHYzwCLcBGAs/s1600/2017-autumn05.jpg" /></a><br /><br />I wait for the weather to turn.</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-69922445352194662752017-09-17T08:28:00.001+01:002017-09-17T08:30:43.553+01:00part one: belly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZXrg63q52Y/Wb3AU2SBKDI/AAAAAAAAbu4/AunloFSB9ao7E_ShPIIUIv14jwCSkbU8QCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly001.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZXrg63q52Y/Wb3AU2SBKDI/AAAAAAAAbu4/AunloFSB9ao7E_ShPIIUIv14jwCSkbU8QCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly001.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3mDB0Hmf2hY/Wb3AUqZZtGI/AAAAAAAAbu0/rN0uQNSmtksRNKRM4sv4bhci3sNc_b0ygCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly003.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3mDB0Hmf2hY/Wb3AUqZZtGI/AAAAAAAAbu0/rN0uQNSmtksRNKRM4sv4bhci3sNc_b0ygCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly003.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-itRxBDAKPOk/Wb3AWDpT_MI/AAAAAAAAbvA/i999_i9G44kgRbpQgidRV6YL4tgvQdnlQCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly004.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-itRxBDAKPOk/Wb3AWDpT_MI/AAAAAAAAbvA/i999_i9G44kgRbpQgidRV6YL4tgvQdnlQCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly004.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tprty9z6FtE/Wb4hxYEE1QI/AAAAAAAAbvQ/3SoVNE2E76wfw-SJ-hqYZ__IufgkiIRUACLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly005.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tprty9z6FtE/Wb4hxYEE1QI/AAAAAAAAbvQ/3SoVNE2E76wfw-SJ-hqYZ__IufgkiIRUACLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-belly005.jpg" /></a><br /><br />I thought I'd share with you some of the drawings I drew during the last few months. Stay tuned—more on the way...</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-65329586316327264342017-09-16T16:37:00.003+01:002017-09-16T22:28:29.647+01:00the bilmawn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K_P9dwPA-zQ/Wb1Ap9ypCWI/AAAAAAAAbt4/YdH4Iie1uxoQ2-huR1kBUhPllFjQ4pKkQCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-bilmawn.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K_P9dwPA-zQ/Wb1Ap9ypCWI/AAAAAAAAbt4/YdH4Iie1uxoQ2-huR1kBUhPllFjQ4pKkQCLcBGAs/s1600/szaza-bilmawn.jpg" /></a><br /><br />We spent Eid al-Adha in Imlil last year, where an old Amazigh tradition still carries on during the days following the Eid. Thunderous drumming echoes through the valleys of the Atlas, and high on a hill one morning, we spied a group of young men dressed in various masks (and some fake beards) preparing to rampage through the village below, led by a fellow dressed in goat skins. This is what I was hoping to find on our trip, the mysterious <i>Bilmawn</i>.<br /><br />The <i>Bilmawn</i> (or <i>Boujloud</i>) appears to be something out of Pagan times, something ancient— not unlike the <i>Krampus</i> or Portugal's <i>Caretos</i>, who chase young women through the streets whilst wielding sticks and cow bells. With twisting horns and dark human eyes peering through the eye-holes of a flattened goat's head, the animal smell still strong on the fur, the <i>Bilmawn</i> thrills and terrorizes young children by chasing them with a stick, collecting the discarded skins of the sheep sacrificed during the Eid. I have read that the <i>Bilmawn</i> and his cohort also collect alms for the local mosque, though I wasn't able to get much information on the tradition whenever I asked about it, and people seemed genuinely amused that I would even want to know.<br /><br />Hoping to grab a sketch with this wild character, we approached him with our clumsy French. The <i>Bilmawn</i>, who either did not understand us or was so into his role, stared at us blankly through puffs of smoke from his cigarette, which dangled grotesquely out from under his goat face. One of his companions, wearing shades and a powdered face with a fake beard haphazardly glued to his chin, did understand. Of course we could sketch and photograph everyone, but we needed to offer a donation. Normally I would balk over paying to draw, but this was such a great opportunity and one that might not come my way in some time, so I placed a few dirhams into his powdered palm. The goat man extinguished his cigarette, and struck a pose.<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2YE_tvaqkiE/Wb1DdEYl6dI/AAAAAAAAbuE/InIwjq1mlMw4AYcZ7N3GUy17rMQWVQD5wCLcBGAs/s1600/bilmawn01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2YE_tvaqkiE/Wb1DdEYl6dI/AAAAAAAAbuE/InIwjq1mlMw4AYcZ7N3GUy17rMQWVQD5wCLcBGAs/s1600/bilmawn01.jpg" /></a><br /><br />As we drove off down the hill, I looked up to where we had met the bizarre cast of characters and watched them begin their descent into the village. The pounding of drums echoed as I imagined a group of children scurrying away in that wonderful mix of delight and fright.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tCrUrLsiUKo/Wb1FNcQhLWI/AAAAAAAAbuU/dk8jnjaCSDwmJupms1jeA0vr9hnhDx9cACLcBGAs/s1600/bilmawn02.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tCrUrLsiUKo/Wb1FNcQhLWI/AAAAAAAAbuU/dk8jnjaCSDwmJupms1jeA0vr9hnhDx9cACLcBGAs/s1600/bilmawn02.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-51309121680619834742017-09-03T00:17:00.002+01:002017-09-03T00:17:27.670+01:00eid mubarak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f3RgHeOoMPo/Was7p0g_dGI/AAAAAAAAbnY/VTggAECtvKEDwwbp_IIzViKnl1nJq-tewCLcBGAs/s1600/eid-al-adha01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f3RgHeOoMPo/Was7p0g_dGI/AAAAAAAAbnY/VTggAECtvKEDwwbp_IIzViKnl1nJq-tewCLcBGAs/s1600/eid-al-adha01.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Friday was Eid al-Adha, one of the most important holy days for Muslim Moroccans. It is the feast of sacrifice, when families get together and slaughter a sheep in honour of Ibrahim (or Abraham) and his test of faith. When I was in Istanbul, I would occasionally see the sheep and sometimes cattle being taken outside the city where makeshift abbatoirs were set up for the holiday. Sheep would be carried on the backs of trucks and in car trunks, looking rather bewildered to say the least. I have a vivid memory of the gutters running red with blood in Cairo, the scent of animal and iron in the hot air, the rusty handprints of the devout dripping on the walls of houses.<br /><br />Here in Rabat, the musty smell of livestock permeates the air a few days before the Eid, and the bleating of sheep echoes from basements and rooftops alike. Our neighbours had four on their roof, and though I am a meat eater and respect that people have their traditions and beliefs, I must admit that I felt unsettled by the sight of those sheep on that roof. A roof, like a basement, is no place for an animal, and I knew that within a couple of hours, their lives would end on that roof. The only comfort was that they would be eaten and appreciated by families who came together in celebration, the meat shared with neighbours, friends, and the less fortunate— there would be little waste. A far better fate than for those poor creatures of feedlots and mass manufacturing in the West.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JMnUBVlTqUI/Was74uWKYKI/AAAAAAAAbnc/EW0MFUYJbCEmXTXDyDrWmWQlHBb4xw7EACLcBGAs/s1600/eid-al-adha02.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JMnUBVlTqUI/Was74uWKYKI/AAAAAAAAbnc/EW0MFUYJbCEmXTXDyDrWmWQlHBb4xw7EACLcBGAs/s1600/eid-al-adha02.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Many of my students love this Eid— they tell me it's like Christmas, and look forward to spending precious time with their loved ones. Some admit that they feel bad for the sheep, but value the holiday, and their beliefs. A friend of mine in Turkey once divulged her childhood Eid memories (Eid al-Adha is called Kurban Bayram in Turkish), which typically involved her mother calling over the girls to help her wash out the entrails for making sausages. The smell haunted her into adulthood, but it was a happy and cherished time that she spent with her mother, sisters, and aunts. It reminds me of Thanksgiving with my mother— only far removed from the killing and processing of the turkey (though there was that one time my mum had to pluck one of the birds).<br /><br />So <i>Eid Mubarak</i> to my Muslim friends! I hope you are having a wonderful time with your loved ones, and wish you many more dear memories with them.</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-79708047312059301822017-09-01T19:13:00.000+01:002017-09-01T19:25:01.285+01:00lines in the sand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fw72bCBzbl8/WamgGCECElI/AAAAAAAAbmI/5g2jyA5Ryk0Btn0Uqb7718e04d41C596gCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi012.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fw72bCBzbl8/WamgGCECElI/AAAAAAAAbmI/5g2jyA5Ryk0Btn0Uqb7718e04d41C596gCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi012.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FAfqGZTjHG4/WamgPqqXfEI/AAAAAAAAbmQ/icZgd69utmIsxLLgUc0HynrAArEv0-8TwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi014.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FAfqGZTjHG4/WamgPqqXfEI/AAAAAAAAbmQ/icZgd69utmIsxLLgUc0HynrAArEv0-8TwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi014.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CHIsJScj49s/Wami7yDgrwI/AAAAAAAAbm0/jZCaGpqyXVc2SHngyDtaDmWQIzfTMFF3wCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi013-2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CHIsJScj49s/Wami7yDgrwI/AAAAAAAAbm0/jZCaGpqyXVc2SHngyDtaDmWQIzfTMFF3wCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi013-2.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nxdJPS2rgUY/WamgfdHEfUI/AAAAAAAAbmc/AjU3LZoWEwwwOaJKLdSekwvzuhLjN-STQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi017.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nxdJPS2rgUY/WamgfdHEfUI/AAAAAAAAbmc/AjU3LZoWEwwwOaJKLdSekwvzuhLjN-STQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi017.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CXzY8h8pUeg/WamhBDdpKgI/AAAAAAAAbmk/3BI_zF5O_68ANauOOY6RP-gqZcCiI-h3gCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi018.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CXzY8h8pUeg/WamhBDdpKgI/AAAAAAAAbmk/3BI_zF5O_68ANauOOY6RP-gqZcCiI-h3gCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi018.jpg" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OqjlediK830/WamloOt8Y2I/AAAAAAAAbnA/rhOwhUpmhVYajr_hsEAr17GvBp_JzFjFwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi019.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OqjlediK830/WamloOt8Y2I/AAAAAAAAbnA/rhOwhUpmhVYajr_hsEAr17GvBp_JzFjFwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi019.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-76330922101210004822017-09-01T18:39:00.002+01:002017-09-01T18:39:39.080+01:00from himalaya to sahara<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k8ipRvs_Aqw/WajrlRrIeRI/AAAAAAAAblw/7OLeXZKXB_Q_VMgCAwc78MIpPiP2T76AACLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi009.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k8ipRvs_Aqw/WajrlRrIeRI/AAAAAAAAblw/7OLeXZKXB_Q_VMgCAwc78MIpPiP2T76AACLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi009.jpg" /></a><br /><br />We woke just before dawn, after a night of drumming under a bright moon. The air was cool and damp, and it seemed like our little camp was home to the only people in the world, and the world was silent, except for the occasional snort of a camel or raven's chuckle. I watched Tsewang follow the edge of a dune in his socks, marvelling at the softness of the orange sand.<br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-awgJSVmgU30/WajrmHTrYjI/AAAAAAAAbl0/AalRQ_E4cTYCiyDki3H9gzvVrD8Yli3NQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi010.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-awgJSVmgU30/WajrmHTrYjI/AAAAAAAAbl0/AalRQ_E4cTYCiyDki3H9gzvVrD8Yli3NQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi010.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWuNxmJS_LA/WajrmPO0SQI/AAAAAAAAbl4/NTNTX49-O8U6itnrLHNC9eTDmhA5q6sBQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi011.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWuNxmJS_LA/WajrmPO0SQI/AAAAAAAAbl4/NTNTX49-O8U6itnrLHNC9eTDmhA5q6sBQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi011.jpg" /></a><br /><br />I wondered what was running through his head, this boy from the Himalaya, sifting the Sahara through his fingers.</div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-77955012608572950372017-08-27T22:43:00.002+01:002017-08-27T22:43:43.892+01:00orange and pink<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y28l_u8hJXE/WaM4slVQQhI/AAAAAAAAblY/DGRAKez4yjsrM1mi5U9JcJ4I6jzgoiiuwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi005.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y28l_u8hJXE/WaM4slVQQhI/AAAAAAAAblY/DGRAKez4yjsrM1mi5U9JcJ4I6jzgoiiuwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi005.jpg" /></a><br /><br />How lucky we were to have arrived just before sunset! The sky took turns between pink and purple, while the orange sand blushed. Though every photo I tried to take from the back of my loping camel blurred, you can still get a sense of the colours and the calm.<br /><br />Pedro somehow managed to snap this not-so-blurry photo of me, secretly carrying a lentil-sized Baby within— followed by Tsewang wrapped in a brilliant blue turban.<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qHs24EBQXx0/WaM4u26aJCI/AAAAAAAAblc/YWRQlr-oDMAUudDTTrySj2z6HDMBasKUQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi006.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qHs24EBQXx0/WaM4u26aJCI/AAAAAAAAblc/YWRQlr-oDMAUudDTTrySj2z6HDMBasKUQCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi006.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-35516242787105372262017-08-27T22:13:00.003+01:002017-08-27T22:14:48.832+01:00erg chebbi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OczqFkaVbvk/WaMzXrdsWtI/AAAAAAAAblE/O60npNEw2t0a3Bc_wfTaaU59jHU7sZxmwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi001.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OczqFkaVbvk/WaMzXrdsWtI/AAAAAAAAblE/O60npNEw2t0a3Bc_wfTaaU59jHU7sZxmwCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi001.jpg" /></a><br /><br />The soft orange dunes on the horizon appeared like something out of a dream— a smooth line of colour in a greying landscape that suddenly grew into waves. Here lies the edge of the Sahara: Erg Chebbi, where we were to spend the night.<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4hdd0rNZsWI/WaMzb7VpH7I/AAAAAAAAblI/szlSrRw63LkJvinDV1d37BpJrVgqcK2KgCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi002-2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4hdd0rNZsWI/WaMzb7VpH7I/AAAAAAAAblI/szlSrRw63LkJvinDV1d37BpJrVgqcK2KgCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi002-2.jpg" /></a><br /><br />First, we needed to find our camels.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0MRxHSPagIY/WaMxIyZsDzI/AAAAAAAAbk4/jdeD4gHcDE88BTOkJNKfff5gAgKsivSFgCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi004.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0MRxHSPagIY/WaMxIyZsDzI/AAAAAAAAbk4/jdeD4gHcDE88BTOkJNKfff5gAgKsivSFgCLcBGAs/s1600/ergchebbi004.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-75919042537057952522017-08-27T20:51:00.004+01:002017-08-27T20:51:59.480+01:00oasis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GvQdCfyDm2w/WaHg7jEUccI/AAAAAAAAbj4/qMoQMm2NklwQayqVgDIQNeVrXTRHc__RQCLcBGAs/s1600/tafilalt01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GvQdCfyDm2w/WaHg7jEUccI/AAAAAAAAbj4/qMoQMm2NklwQayqVgDIQNeVrXTRHc__RQCLcBGAs/s1600/tafilalt01.jpg" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f8NUlUFv23g/WaHjNPjSYMI/AAAAAAAAbkI/eqQ_vbS38N81Qtfk9Gkzf5HArmZ-TUluACLcBGAs/s1600/tafilalt03.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f8NUlUFv23g/WaHjNPjSYMI/AAAAAAAAbkI/eqQ_vbS38N81Qtfk9Gkzf5HArmZ-TUluACLcBGAs/s1600/tafilalt03.jpg" /></a><br /><br />It came upon us all of a sudden: the Oasis of Tafilalt, Morocco's biggest oasis. Like the spine of a great green serpent, thousands of date palms meandered through the orange earth in curves.<br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UAThFMPs2fs/WaHma9maufI/AAAAAAAAbkU/Z5cHL-Fw-XMV3Q-WVjUcqH9P8heKU03OACLcBGAs/s1600/tafilalt02.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UAThFMPs2fs/WaHma9maufI/AAAAAAAAbkU/Z5cHL-Fw-XMV3Q-WVjUcqH9P8heKU03OACLcBGAs/s1600/tafilalt02.jpg" /></a></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-23325662896064675802017-08-13T10:22:00.000+01:002017-08-13T10:22:43.254+01:00suddenly, camels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QqDHkVNumFE/WZAZZn3bn9I/AAAAAAAAbi4/ZTyKy5xjEmQczgVwmIXIEcM7MENM3LpoQCLcBGAs/s1600/past-zaida01.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QqDHkVNumFE/WZAZZn3bn9I/AAAAAAAAbi4/ZTyKy5xjEmQczgVwmIXIEcM7MENM3LpoQCLcBGAs/s1600/past-zaida01.jpg" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="450" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kxDtU6kfKMo/WZAaWRKU8KI/AAAAAAAAbjE/MJJryDk3sl8QuwqvLH2ximqHV81zz9e7gCLcBGAs/s1600/past-zaida02-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kxDtU6kfKMo/WZAaWRKU8KI/AAAAAAAAbjE/MJJryDk3sl8QuwqvLH2ximqHV81zz9e7gCLcBGAs/s1600/past-zaida02-1.jpg" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="450" /></a><br /></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5247858193952376831.post-55538422257875981942017-08-12T13:04:00.000+01:002017-08-12T13:04:11.444+01:00the red earth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g40c5QajnhQ/WY5QLQNPQ0I/AAAAAAAAbh4/W5OfOvoiVPUPSxwRmpuTLGcTV3N92P1_wCLcBGAs/s1600/zaida001.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g40c5QajnhQ/WY5QLQNPQ0I/AAAAAAAAbh4/W5OfOvoiVPUPSxwRmpuTLGcTV3N92P1_wCLcBGAs/s1600/zaida001.jpg" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WyL395jYTN4/WY7oVkzZaFI/AAAAAAAAbiM/gOlP8SXa6MgBOKApIUZ2e-LEETRVwMlxQCLcBGAs/s1600/zaida002.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WyL395jYTN4/WY7oVkzZaFI/AAAAAAAAbiM/gOlP8SXa6MgBOKApIUZ2e-LEETRVwMlxQCLcBGAs/s1600/zaida002.jpg" /></a><br /><br />The drive from Rabat to the nearest Saharan dunes in Merzouga is about eight and a half hours— if there aren't any slow trucks, accidents, or anything else that can pop up unexpectedly. Moroccan highways are smooth and quick, but the winding roads through the Middle Atlas can take quite some time, and it's always best to expect to add a minimum of two extra hours to your roadtrip.<br /><br />Last October, Pedro and I were lucky to have one of our dear <a href="https://harikaszaza.blogspot.pt/search/label/Shree%20Mangal%20Dvip%20School" target="_blank">students from Nepal</a> visit us. Tsewang was studying abroad on a scholarship to finish up high school and his hosts kindly offered to send him our way for a holiday. We had a week to show him his first glimpse of an ocean, a desert, and of course, as much of Morocco as possible. We plotted our route to the Sahara through the mountains of Ifrane, the high plateau of Zaïda and the oasis of Tafilalt. <br /><br />The rain fell on the red earth of Zaïda, forming pools of pale blue sky. We spied our first houbara hiding among the clumps of thirsty vegetation, an ancient-looking bird that seemed just as surprised to see us as we were to see her.<br /></div>szazahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07456170555733148455noreply@blogger.com0